Short Story: Death's Night

Short Story: Death's Night

She tries not to shiver or scream or shout but her body lets her down the tiniest amount. A sharp laugh drops leaden from his face and clatters around the cavernous, claustrophobic space. Everywhere to run, nowhere to hide.

The knife in his hand drips with her friends' blood, the ones in his mouth would too, if they could. The yards in between them inches to her eyes, her half torn clothes a shop window to his, revealing his prize. A million choices, no way to decide.

“Whatever you do, my love,” he had cried, “don’t show him any fear, keep your pride.”

“Please don’t leave me,” she had barely replied, before covered in sweat, blood and tears, in her arms he died. She lifts her gaze, embracing fate.

Maniacal eyes stare upwards through thick lashes as he stabs her repeatedly, while from the ashes of an ill-timed murder a once dead man stands to rescue his love from this mad man’s hands. She returns the favour, he was too late.

“Please,” he screams, “bring her back too!”

“I can’t,” the wind groans, “that deal was only for you.” He touches the already cooling cheek of a girl once beautiful, bright and brilliantly meek. He cannot give up, not on her.

“I offer you the blood of this man I have slain, he was as bloodthirsty as you, you have much to gain.”

“A present? For me? Why you sweet little boy.” The God of Death giggles like a child with a toy. “I brought you back, no transfer.”

“On this,” his purple lips whisper, “your day of birth, I offer you myself, and all that I am worth.” Death claims he has no use for a man or morals and honour, that without embracing evil, his wife is a goner. He sells his soul, and goes to work.

A high court judge slips out after dinner with his wife and three kids to lead the life of a sinner. From the vermin of humankind he takes his cut, before dining again on designer drugs and underage sluts. In the darkness, a dead man lurks.

“I’ll give you anything.” The marked man mumbles through fat.

“No you can’t,” the killer says, “only Death can do that.” With the clench of a hand the judge loses his throat. The dead man cries to the heavens, that Death may take note. The debt has been paid, the slate clean.

If you should chance upon a man and a woman pale as ghosts, holding hands in the darkness, more content than most, then remember the lesson I have attempted to preach, for this is a rule you do not wish to breach: Don’t mess with love, on the night of Halloween.